


The Light-bearer

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen, Hell, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sam goes dreamwalking in Dean's head and finds more memories of Dean's forty years in Hell.<br/>Sam was not prepared for this.</i></p><p><span class="small">Set early season 4; mild spoilers for the rest of that season.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Light-bearer

He didn't mean to do it. Not at first.

He only wanted to help. And, to do that, he needed to know what he was up against.

Sure, Dean's time in Hell must have been torturous. Literally. Sam could only begin to imagine the whips and chains and blood and fire that, even now, tormented Dean all hours of the day — during waking hours and hours of dreams. Those dreams, they haunted Sam too, chased Dean right out of them until he was sleeping less and less. Now Dean's a ghost of his former self, nearly indistinguishable from the things they hunt. He goes through the motions, routine of bite and ritual of snark, like a residual haunting. A looping echo of the Dean Sam used to know.

So he finds some dream root. It isn't as hard as he thought and he wonders if maybe they could've done it themselves the first time, saved Bobby without involving Bela at all. And then they never would have lost the Colt, and maybe Dean never would have—

But it's pointless worrying over those what-ifs now.

 

They're near New York City, and there's everything there, including shops that sell psychoactive herbs that aren't policed because _it's just tea, officer, really._ Sam's in and out, back at their dingy motel in Passaic before Dean's home from a day at the library, grumbling about getting stuck with research duties, his fist clenched around a bag of White Castle, grease bleeding up from the bottom.

Dinner’s gone, along with a half bottle of bourbon, and Dean's soon out, snoring softly on his back, legs still bent over the edge of the bed.

Quietly, Sam walks up to him. His fingers brush over Dean's temple, then he spots a stray hair on Dean's shoulder and pinches that up instead of plucking.

The concoction tastes just as awful as he remembers. But it doesn't take long for it to be replaced by smoke, thick like mesquite. He grinds his teeth and can feel the grit of ash.

Dean, the beds, the entire room fall away, and Sam's falling too. He sees nothing, and the air chokes him, denser the further he drops, filling his lungs with weight. And he goes faster. Reflexively, he reaches out, fingertips flexing over a soft, wet surface that gives when he lets his heel drag into it. Flat here, then knotty there, he maps the terrain, measuring the narrow space with both arms outstretched, elbows bent a little in. Something sludge-like sticks between his fingers, but it doesn't slow him down much. So he waits for the next bulbous outgrowth and grabs hold.

A scream, sharp as knives, assaults his ears. He lets go abruptly, pulls his hands to his chest. But the screaming does not stop. It echoes and multiplies, sirening through the space where he's falling. One voice high, one low, one mid-range, and another and another. A chorus of pain.

The sound goes straight through him, stabbing at the sockets of his eyes.

The farther he falls, the more it diminishes, until the screams soften into white noise. It rings in his ears, until he's not sure if it's really even there anymore.

The smoke dissipates too, leaving a lingering smell of sulfur that Sam can taste in his mouth.

It's getting colder. He raises his head, eyes still blinking to focus in the pitch black, then looks down. Far below, there's a pinprick of light, like a single star in the sky. The closer he gets to it, the more he shivers, teeth chattering loud in his head.

Sam tries harder to focus, half hoping the approaching light will illuminate his surroundings so he can get his bearings, half hoping he won't ever have to see. Suddenly, the light swallows up all his vision. He shuts his eyes, but it's still there, blood of his eyelids purpling the chilled blue brightness. He raises his palms to his eyes, but then he's hitting hard concrete, hands going out to catch himself.

Sprawled out, he automatically looks up instead of to his surroundings. Overhead is a ceiling with an opening. All of it made of flesh, locked in place with a net of browned, chipped bone. The light seeps up into the hole from which he dropped, exposing only a foot or so. It's slick with blood and yellow bile. The hole and the ceiling form a patchwork of human parts. He can barely make out one body from the next, is not even sure there are bodies at all. There's a pumping heart with no chest to hold it, a cavity of ribcage with no organs encased. All above him, pieces dangle out: viscera, tongues, lolling genitalia. And eyes, tens of hundreds of eyeballs, all cataract with the fluids that drip, drip, drip slowly onto the floor around him.

Sam's eyes follow the drippings, watch as the waste washes molasses-slow into a drain near his feet. The drain is welling up, clogged with hair. Sam scrambles to his feet, stumbles away from it. He wonders if that's where Dean is, somewhere up there, scattered apart but conscious as a whole. He wonders if he can put Dean back together again, get him out of here, and how.

Then he hears his own name.

He turns around and moves toward the sound, narrowly avoiding a string of viscous red-brown that bobs and lengthens, still clinging to the ceiling.

In the corner, there's a machine. It sits shielded from the bleeding above by a sheet of plexiglass pillared with steel rods bolted in place. Troughs like rain gutters collect the wet filth that floods over the plexi, spilling down toward another drain. Unlike the other one, this drain has no metal grate. But Sam thinks he sees some sort of filter. No, he thinks he sees teeth. There's a gurgling sound, then a rush of fluids vomit up out of the drain only to run back down. The glug-glug-glug it makes is almost human.

Sam has no time to wonder if this is some poor soul's punishment when he hears his name again.

Under the plexi, long, industrial fluorescent lamps throw harsh white over the machine, none of the light reflected in its dull, metallic skin. The contraption looks like a modified printing press, but larger, with a flat bed on top, exposed gears at the bottom, and a massive cylinder at one end. The light hurts Sam's eyes. But, as he adjusts to it, he can see someone lying on the machine. Naked, save for the metal strips that strap tight at wrists and ankles, Sam can see it's a man.

Not any man, but Dean.

Dean's eyes are shut. They flutter when Sam calls out to him, but do not open. He flinches when Sam touches him, but Sam touches him again, gripping him firmly by his forearm. "Don't worry, Dean. I'm going to get you out."

Sam examines Dean's bonds. They have no locks, no hinges, look as though they were welded in place with Dean already in them. Sam wants to get Dean up and mobile before pulling him directly out of the dream, but he sees no way. He leans over Dean, thumb tugging gently at his eyelid to stir him, to remind him that none of this is real, to remind him that he's in control. Beneath the lid, Dean's eye is bloodshot white, rolled back to reveal only a sliver of muddied green flitting back and forth.

"Dean!" Sam shakes him, hands sliding on the clammy skin of Dean's shoulders. "Dean, come on."

There's a shushing sound, and the hairs stand up on the back of Sam's neck. From behind him, he hears a low voice humming, a baritone that would be soothing were it not for the faint rasp in it like dry, dead leaves. Were it not for where they are.

The humming gets louder, nearer and Sam recognizes the lullaby now. He turns, just as lips open up to sing:

 _Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, little Deany. Go to sleep, go to sleep. And I hope you don't wake up._

Sam skids across the vile floor, knee ripping open on one of the grates, flaying the pant leg of his jeans. He lands with a smack against the corner, concrete walls jarring his bones.

"No need for ceremony," says the voice. And Sam's wrenched off his knees into a standing position. He tests himself, straining and pushing with one leg. But it's useless; he's pinned to the spot.

"No, I should be on my knees for _you._ " The voice singsongs, as if it loves the sound of itself too much to quit. "But not. Just. Yet."

Out of the shadows comes a man dressed all in white. Or, Sam thinks, something in the shape of a man, with no telltale signs of human features or even a hint of flesh. White pants hang over white shoes, splattered with blood and pus. A white apron covers a white work shirt which leaves the arms uncovered, though they're sheathed in opaque-white latex. Only the eyes show, dark, pupil indistinct from iris, peering out from a white hood tied round the neck with white twine.

Stepping up close to Sam, he says, "Nonono, not quite yet. You're still a." He runs a gloved knuckle down Sam's sternum and abdomen, smoothly, right down over the seam of Sam's crotch. "Growing boy," he finishes. And Sam can spot the grin in his eyes, though he still can't separate the center from the sclera, still can't separate himself from the wall, through he's struggling harder now.

The man—no, _demon_ , Sam corrects himself—pivots on its heel. "Soon everyone will bow to you. Even him." The demon lays a hand on Dean's leg.

Sam opens his mouth, but his throat closes. He growls in frustration, wordless as an animal.

"Oh, tut-tut, easy now." The demon cocks its head at Sam. "You'll get your turn." His hand slips up Dean's thigh. "But first, he must bow to me."

Sam winces as the demon pushes its fingers beneath Dean's testicles and shoves inside him. Dean's eyes snap open, and the demon coos. "There's a good boy. Now, open up and say _ah_."

The demon removes its fingers from Dean and toys at a knob directly between his legs. There's a clatter and a clanking as it tugs the knob up and back, opening a small door that folds back on itself to reveal a rusty chunk of metal. It looks like an old animal trap: two tiny jaws of iron, lined with spikes, a lipless smile. Un-oiled springs groan as the demon pries it apart. Sam closes his eyes fast just as the demon lifts up Dean's flaccid penis and drops it lengthwise between the teeth of the trap. He hears it shut with a snap. The scream in Sam’s throat nearly drowns out Dean's own. It starts the souls above them in an answering wail, until the demon claps its hands together and the noise stops.

"Very nice," it says. "But you need to work on your dynamics. Let's try again."

At the sound of footsteps, Sam opens his eyes. The demon now stands at the base of the machine, near Dean's feet. It yanks at a lever, and the bed Dean's on tilts downward, dipping Dean into the belly of the machine up to his knees. Above the lever, there's a small wheel with a handle on it. The demon grabs hold and spins it, slowly at first then gaining speed. Sam watches in horror as the trap between Dean's legs shudders back and forth, pistons pumping to move it, metal teeth tearing into his tender skin with every shift and slide.

Dean cries out, a strangled sound. Mouth wide, Sam can see his tongue fallen back. The desperate workings of Dean's throat don't relent until Dean swallows it, his own tongue, and Sam cries out too, the sound ripping past his paralyzed lips.

Now that the wheel is going, the demon leaves it to churn on its own. Standing at the head of the machine, the demon presses its latexed palms to Dean's cheeks, cradling his skull. It thumbs at Dean's eyes, prying them open as they try to flutter closed. "Now, stay with me, Dean. You don't want to miss the best part."

In the trap, Dean's penis starts to swell, the flesh flushed where it isn't spotted with blood, striped with lacerations. A muted moan rumbles up out of Dean. His body rocks with tremors. The demon's eyes brighten. "Do you want some... release, Dean?"

The demon walks back to the end of the machine and halts the wheel with one hand. With a flick of its wrist, the iron trap flies open. Sam can't look, but he hears the metal clank, hears the tiny door shut with a bang. He's looking at Dean's face instead. Dean's looking back at him, eyes popped wide, panicked, tears streaming out of them and over his cheeks. His eyelashes quiver, but he can't seem to blink, and Sam knows the demon must be doing this too.

Sam wants to shake his head, wants to shout at him, say: _You can make this stop._ But he's frozen in Dean's dream.

Dean's dream. Sam's so caught up in the butchery before him that he forgot his own control. This isn't his playground, but it's not Dean's either. He just needs to push back before they fall any further.

"That's where you're wrong."

The voice, though a whisper, sounds almost like the demon's voice, rough and low. But the demon is grunting, turning a large crank on the cylinder with all its physical strength. There's a crunching sound, a wet sound. A sound of breaking and bleeding.

Dean is sliding down the slanted bed, an unbroken howl ripping from his throat.

A squelching sound draws Sam's attention back to the foot of the machine. On the floor, a basin he never noticed before is collecting something. Something that's coming out of the machine. Something dark pink and soft and slippery, coming out in long pulls. Like meat through a grinder.

And that's when he realizes. The demon is grinding up Dean.

Sam blacks out.

 

He wakes to a voice in his ear.

"This is my playground."

Before he can adjust his eyes, Sam feels the cold metal beneath his shoulder blades, his backside, circling his wrists and ankles. Pain shoots up from between his legs and he screams until he can't breathe. Coughing and gasping, he looks up. And sees Dean.

His brother looms over him, dressed in white. The butcher's apron, the executioner's mask do nothing to disguise him. Sam knows those eyes, though he's never seen them so lit with wicked delight. They're dark with a lust Sam's never known, not even within himself during his blackest moments, begging for blood from Ruby or death from anyone.

Dean raises his gloved hand to the place where his mouth should be, his fingertips coated with blood. He smears two fingers over the cloth of the hood, parallel blotches of blood, like lips. Dean makes a smacking sound.

"Wanna play with me, Sammy?"

Dean's voice is indulgent, but stripped of all its former warmth. The warmth Sam remembers from days on actual playgrounds, Dean pushing him higher and higher on the swings. The warmth of his laughter as he raced Sam up the stairs, followed him down the sliding board, their legs slotted together and arms spread out like wings. The warmth of the sun on their skin and heated metal as they spun around and around the merry-go-round, squealing with childish joy.

The joyless squeal of steel on steel jolts Sam from his memories. Beneath him, the bed tips at an increasing angle.

"No! No, Dean." He draws a shaky breath. "This isn't you. This isn't real."

Dean loosens the tie around his neck, lifts off the hood. Smirking, he says, "This is me." Hands fastening over the shaft of the crank, he says, "This is real."

Sam starts to slide. A metal auger tugs at the calloused skin of his bare feet, pinches at his toes. He struggles in his bonds, and they cut into the thin flesh, nipping at the jutting bones. He fights against them harder, crying out as he only brings himself more pain. Dean's laughter, quiet and cruel, distracts him from his efforts.

It's the wrong kind of fight.

Panting harshly, he wills himself to calm down. _Focus._ He reminds himself that this is only real if he allows it to be. If this nightmare is his reality right now, he's claiming ownership. He closes his eyes, inhales through his nose and pictures broken cuffs. His bonds bust open. The release of pressure brings a fresh burst of pain, but he's free, already scrambling up off the table. He slips and the grinder catches him, rips a patch of meat from the ball of his foot as he pulls it away and swings over the side.

The floor is dry here under the plexiglass barrier, but he stumbles on his feet, muscles shaky from disuse. He has no time to question how long he'd been out, strapped to the machine, to be so weakened. Dean is stalking toward him.

This Dean he never knew, he never wants to know again. It isn't him, no matter what he says.

"It isn't real," Sam mutters.

"Oh?" Dean quirks an eyebrow. "It will feel real."

"I hope so," Sam says, and opens his arms wide.

He imagines warmth until he feels it, balled up tight, low in his belly. It grows, pulsing through him, spearing out to his legs and arms, straight up through his spine. His face prickles with heat, but the warmth centers him, settles into the middle of him, strong and strengthening. His heart beats hard in his chest, but he fears nothing, not even Dean as he closes in.

Dean's hands are cold, steel snares, but Sam wraps them with his own hands, closing fast around them, locking himself to Dean. The cold shell of Dean seeps in and Sam shivers. But the warmth inside him still grows. He feels the low throb of it. He grabs Dean tight just as it bursts through him, spilling out of him in streams of light. Rays of gold and orange like fire fill the room until it's all he can see. But he does not burn.

Even in Hell, there are no flames that can harm them now.

Dean goes limp in his arms, like a stringless puppet. Before Sam realizes what's happening, they're moving up through the hole down which he fell.

The light follows them the entire way, shines above them like a beacon, burning clean through the tangle of tortured souls. If this was real, Sam thinks, he’d wish to release them, take them with him too. But the second he thinks it, he's slipping, tumbling backwards. It takes all his strength to right them. He holds on to Dean tight, and they ascend.

 

Daylight pierces through Dean's eyelids, and he bolts upright, fingers curling into the starchy cover of the motel bed.

Sam's hand is on his shoulder. He's telling him it's okay, soothing him like a spooked horse.

Dean shrugs Sam off, but he can still feel the heat of his hand on him. He looks up, some smartass comment on the tip of his tongue, and sees Sam haloed in warm light.

But it's just a trick being played on his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> • Betas: raynemaiden and zelda-zee.
> 
> • Partly inspired by Nine Inch Nails’ video for "Happiness in Slavery."
> 
> • Originally posted in a rougher version [here](http://community.livejournal.com/sharp_teeth/2807.html?thread=465143#t465143) as part of [](http://sharp_teeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**sharp_teeth**](http://sharp_teeth.livejournal.com/).


End file.
